Unwakeable
by dredfish
Summary: "Isn't it curious how every detail of our lives revolve around sleep? When to wake, when to rest. It's all very tiring." These are the triumphs and trials of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes in my first attempt at a chapter fic. Rated M for future explicit scenes to look forward to. Enjoy.
1. Dream Catcher

He stirred in his deep slumber. He was quaking limbs tangled around serpent sheets slowly starting to constrict him. He always stirred because he always dreamed. And he always dreamed those haunting, bone-chilling dreams about Afghanistan. Only those kind of nightmares left him gasping awake, a cold trickle down his back leaving him shivering. This night was no different.

Dr. John Watson once again found himself startled awake by the vividly gruesome memories of the strange, maroon color blood turned when it hit sand. These visions were like thieves in the night, stealing precious time, precious hours of his life he could have spent living rather than reliving a gory past. Yet there was always a thirst for more, and perhaps this unconscious part of him also triggered those awful nightmares, as if reminding him of this unquenchable appetite.

He sucked in the thick air, rubbed his temples, and, with a defeated groan, slipped back underneath the safe haven of his comforter. Tossing a bit, he finally found the comfortable indent he'd left in the mattress and drifted to sleep.

Well, he would have, that is, if he hadn't caught a glimpse of two incandescent, sapphire eyes staring at him from the darkness that was the other side of the bed.

"Sherlock?! Wh- what the fuck are you doing in my bed?!"

"I think the more important observation here is that you're still having war nightmares when you've been home for nearly a year. You've also failed to mention this your therapist, or me for that matter," replied the unmoving lump of blankets on the edge of the mattress. Sherlock Holmes was so self-righteous, so matter-of-fact, and always completely and utterly right. It gave John the urge to choke his brilliant flatmate a little too often.

"No. Nope. You're not turning this one on me," John interjected, blowing steam out of his nostrils. "You're in my bed, and you haven't told me why, or how, or when for that matter. And please don't tell me this is one of your experiments again."

"Then I won't." Sherlock merely answered, which ended up being his only answer, and his eyes fluttering closed.

John _should_ have known. The moment he said "experiments," Sherlock's expression illuminated with curiosity and even slight defense. "You know what I mean. Alright, what is it this time? What big discovery are we going after?"

"I can taste the sarcasm on your breath, but since I'm in your bed I'll very well answer..." the detective said with a deep, shoulder-shrugging sigh and snapped his eyes open. "I've released a breed of _cimex lectularius_, bedbugs, on my mattress to study their life cycle and feeding patterns. And unless you'd like me to spread the infestation around the flat, I need an alternative place to sleep." He made it seem so logical, like basic algebra.

John still felt the need to fight for his right to sleep in his own bed, and in peace. "Well, wait. We have the couch. If I remember correctly, one of them even folds out into a mattress. Couldn't you have just slept there?" He was prying, knowing fully well that he couldn't win in a fight of wits.

"John, you've insulted me. I've checked the couches, and they're simply unsuitable for sleeping for eight consecutive hours, or in my case approximately five."

"But don't you think it's at least weird? Two blokes sleeping together?"

"Are you really so insecure about your sexuality? Or perhaps this is about your nocturnal emiss-"

"No, Sherlock, no." By this time, John was furious. He knew he couldn't win, he knew the only way he'd get to sleep alone is if he either occupied Sherlock's infested bed or slept on the couch himself, which his pride nor his aching back would let him do. "Look, I'm exhausted, and since you have no intentions to move, I'm going back to sleep. We'll talk about it tomorrow." He huffed, pulled the covers over top of him and rolled over so that he faced the wall opposite of his _bed_mate. He couldn't believe this was happening. It was absurd. It was wrong.

But it was also amazing. The man, whose mental capacity for observations could fill the entire city of London, sacrificed his own bed to bugs. All for the sake of science.

"Good night, John." His voice was like a soft, rumbling thunder, easily lulling John back into an easy sleep.

An easy sleep without a trace of nightmares.

* * *

John awoke to sunshine seeping in from the cracked window, creating ripples of shadows on the sheets of his empty bed. Empty. A small wave of relief washed over him when he realized a certain curly-haired brunette wasn't still lingering in his bed. _Lingering_. What a wonderfully descriptive word for Sherlock. He always moved so gracefully. When he plucked evidence from a crime scene, when he waved down a London-bound taxi, when he played often beautiful, but sometimes scratchy, violin at the window of the flat. He could just feel those long, pale, cold fingers tracing the back of his hot neck with a sizzle...

The thought of it gave him goosebumps when John knew very well that it shouldn't. Furthermore, Sherlock Holmes was his business partner, his flatmate, his _friend, _and nothing more_. _John loved and adored women. He loved their curves, their soft and supple bodies, and especially their luxurious hair. The only think he often disliked was the way their minds' twisted everything around. It was really no wonder why John couldn't hold down a relationship for more than a month.

John stretched his tired limbs, wincing at the cracking and popping his old joints made. He rolled out of bed, slipping on his dressing gown before slumping downstairs. "Aaah, good morning Sherlock," he yawned down the steps and planted a seat on the couch after fixing himself some tea. The unresponsive brunette was currently shuffling in the kitchen, probably finding something else for his absurd experiment. They hadn't had a noteworthy case in an awfully long time, besides the usual missing person or dead singleton. This, in turn, made the poor, unstimulated detective a bit stir crazy in his experiments. John hoped, _prayed, _a big case would come soon. He really couldn't take any more creepy, crawly insects or minute house explosions.

"John," Sherlock's tone seemed precautionary, enough to make him perk up. He didn't even want to imagine what the man was going to say next. _"After deducing and studying the bedbugs, I decided to let them farm on my bed until I die." _John would gamble all his money away trying to guess what his flatmate might say next. "I might be brain dead with boredom."

"That's not funny, Sherlock." John replied dryly as the detective reverted to pulling his tight, brunette curls through his fingers.

"It wasn't supposed to be."

"C'mon, we can find something to do. Let's go out to eat to keep your mind off of it. I know a great coffee house-"

By then, Sherlock looked red in the face and boiling. "That's the point, John! That's the fucking point! I want to think, I _need_ to. You poor pitiful people looking for an excuse _not _to think. What's eating a bloody bagel going to do for my starving mind, John?! _Please_, enlighten me."

It was as if by fate that the detective's phone nearly vibrated off the table. His hawkish eyes ripped through everything in the room as they glued onto it. Sherlock nearly dove for it despite the fact that it was barely two feet away.

John listened with adrenaline-induced rage at the verbal abuse he had just received seconds prior. And he would have stayed that way had he not seen a familiarly brilliant spark in Sherlock's eye once he hung up the phone.

Nor did it take long before he heard those long-forgotten words:

"John, get your coat."


	2. Sleep Walkers

They arrived at the crime scene in their usual fashion, in a swerving, speeding taxi only wanting to rid of a maniacal, talkative Sherlock Holmes. While it was utterly obnoxious, the sight of Sherlock shaking with excitement at Lestrade's phone call made John smile. He fed from that energy, that rush of getting a potentially dangerous, potentially fatal, case. Running after Sherlock with his shirt barely over his head made him felt alive once again. Like a war-seeking soldier who'd just put the shiny new helmet on, he felt it. He felt _young._

And he'd forgotten his cane.

"Did Lestrade give you any details on the case?" John tried to prod, but Sherlock was busy filtering every exchange in the universe through his mental palace. "Five children gone missing at approximately 0300 hours in the span of a week." Came the quite delayed, yet of course very specific, metaphorical case file. "On random days, in random locations, at the same time. Three AM. The rubbish supernatural theorists would call 'the witching hour'."

John could feel the eyes rolling, but it didn't make him any less curious about the superstition. "Witching hour? Hmm... Think we might have a Hansel and Gretel revival on our hands?"

"Nonsense. Totally unrelated."

"Really? You did say 'witching hour,' so I just assumed-"

"Eleven ninety-two." Interjected the gruff, tight-toned voice of the cab driver. The frustrated man watched John expectantly pull out his wallet, for Sherlock was already unbuckled and slamming the passenger door shut. The doctor groaned, smashed a couple of bills into the driver's hand and muttered an apology before bolting after the runaway detective.

Now _this_ was exhilarating. A towering mansion completely blocked off by caution tape and uniformed police officers. Wheezing, John finally caught up to Sherlock, who had just entered the perimeter of the crime scene.

"'Scuse me, but who're ya?" Called out a hideous excuse for English from one of the officers.

"Oh, I'm-"

"He's with me." Again that voice crawled under his skin, and exposed nearly everything. He felt himself flush with embarrassment at the situation.

"An' who're ya?" It was God's gift from heaven that Lestrade rescued them and escorted them into the courtyard leading up to the beautiful Victorian. Whomever decided on kidnapping the kin of millionaires must've been either completely mental (very likely) or had a strong superiority complex (also very likely). John had no doubt, however, that Sherlock Holmes would crack it. He never failed to amaze through glorious modesty.

Sherlock and Lestrade were chatting about details and, though normally John would try his very best to gather as much as he could, was too transfixed by the ambiance of the mansion's vast landscaping. Shrubbery, bushes trimmed to imitate animals, every kind of flower lining the walls of the luxurious house. He felt as if he should have dressed nicer for such an occasion.

The doctor then snuck a peek at Sherlock. Cool, indifferent, and shrewd. As if their dingy apartment on Baker Street was merely just his personal vacation home in greater London.

"No fingerprints, no tread pattern. Just an ugly little picture on the wall."

"_Ugly._ What kind of description do you call that? _Ugly?_" The detective huffed under his breath, his intelligence giving him a swollen head underneath all those thick curls. Lestrade ignored the soft-spoken insults. "Right, well, the mother is inside. We have yet to interview her so please try to show some courtesy. She's very shaken."

"Can't promise it. Father's married to his work, mother's in an affair with father's best friend, and so child runs away. What a bore... Oh, come _on_, what else do rich people spend their time doing?!" He seemed to read the minds of both Greg and John, who were each giving him scrutinizing looks.

The entrance of the house was nearly as extravagant and the size. Huge, gaudy doors carved beautifully and intricately with ivy leaves circling around angels on winged horses. It was almost a bit too much, even for a couple of millionaires. Similarly, stepping inside made John very aware not to get dirt on their royal red carpeting.

_"They wouldn't have to worry about blood stains, though." _

He had to reevaluate what just crossed his mind, physically stopping in the middle of the hallway to feel a punch in his chest that was his heartbeat. Sherlock had so much effect on him, it seemed even his stabbing deductions were start to rub off onto the doctor. It made his stomach reel with a sort of knowing, accusing clinch.

"Care to join us? Wait..." that familiar baritone ripped through his thoughts. He suddenly felt exposed, as if his inner-most thoughts were all written on poster board. He wouldn't put it past Sherlock to do that, as a social experiment, or some sort of domestic torture. John barely noticed the detective closely studying his face. "Look how you've made indented tread marks on the carpet, yet this morning it was nearly undisturbed. Whoever left the house wouldn't have just walked out. Instead..." And then another tangent, though John had a horribly strong feeling Sherlock was covering up what he truly had the urge to say.

John could breathe a sigh of relief, but only for a moment because they were moving closer to the missing child's bedroom which, unsurprisingly, ended up being just as vast and colorful as the rest of the house. Full of expensive toys instead of expensive artwork.

Sherlock once again had his deducting gaze on as he walked through the fluorescent pink bedroom. _"Six to eight year-old girl."_ John predicted rather pitifully in comparison to the grime Sherlock found on the window which belonged to a ladder angled outside approximately 32 degrees and et cetera and et cetera.

"As for the symbol," Sherlock focused on the far back wall right above the bed. It seemed like some sort of cult symbol: a large Z with a plethora of extra lines protruding from the diagonal. "It aids in witchcraft. A symbol for sleep. Thick permanent marker, half full with ink, heavy-handed, middle-aged male, no..." The cogs in his brain were turning once more. God, he was amazing.

The mother was just entering the room, sniffling and dabbing a tissue at her eyes. Sherlock broke his concentration to examine her. "Who are you having an affair with? Coworker? No. Your hands don't work, they're too soft. It must be a personal friend."

"How did you- How dare you!"

"Your ring is often removed. The moment you entered the room, you had just remembered to put it on. It was clean on the inside because you've started removing it. Yet... Your finger is still indented so it must be a recent engagement. A month, two maybe. Now the child," he flipped around, strolling around the full mattress, "distraught, confused, is kidnapped while sleeping, or so the alibi goes, but-" Sherlock then patted the bed, "the bed is made, tucked carefully which means that the kidnapper didn't need to pick up the child at all, nor was there a sign of threat. Rather, she went willingly. But why?"

The frazzled mother looked even more teary-eyed, but only because it all rang true. She responded softly, weakly, "How can that be...? A-And why should I believe you?!"

"Because I'm right, and you can't bring yourself to admit it." He stared at her dead in the face, as if seeing right through this cheating, lying woman. She immediately stormed out, which gave Sherlock the signal to immediately start up again. "This kidnapper seems to be appealing to all these children somehow. Not with candy." The detective shot a glance at John for a short second, and he soon realized why.

_"Oh. Hansel and Gretel."_

"But perhaps with the prospect of running away. Lestrade, let me borrow the case file for tonight."

"Impossible, Sherlock. We've barely even made it."

"I'm tired of all these excuses. Have it delivered by tonight."

Greg looked frustrated, as usual, with Sherlock's manner. John had to stifle laughter, knowing that kind of irritation ever so well.

Once again, Sherlock was moving without warning, and it appeared that they were leaving. "All finished? Have you found it all? Can we go eat now?"

"Oh, your poor, simple mind. No, John. Far from it." He had those eyes again. They were blazing sapphires. Taking John by the arm, he flew out the door and down the courtyard. It was breathtaking. Literally. They ended up in the middle of the street, nearly hit by a honking taxi. John, embarrassed, gave him an apologetic wave. "We have to get back to flat, find the names of the other children, how they link together. This case is riveting, John. _Riveting. _I almost feel... stumped."

Those words alone could make John audibly gasp.

* * *

**Note:** Please excuse my inability to write crime drama. I'm really trying, I promise! Also, I hope you catch my irony. I do love some tasty irony. ;) -dredfish


	3. Comatose

John assumed living with Sherlock would be easier after uncovering a challenging case, assumed it would possibly keep him busy and out of hazardous experiments. Oh, if he could ever be _so_ wrong.

Describing Sherlock as _obsessed_ was an understatement. _Addicted _may have been closer. Often times his face would be illuminated by a laptop screen or a phone, and other times he was missing all day only to come back high-strung and frustrated. He ate little, slept little. This case was slowly killing him, and John didn't need to deduce anything to know it.

"Sherlock," John had once said while both were sitting juxtapose on the loveseat.

_"Loveseat. Why do they even call it a loveseat?!" _

"Busy, John," was the snapped retort, the detective never pealing his eyes away from the screen once. His matted curls looked greasy; he probably hadn't showered since the day they got the case.

"Don't you want to take a break? You've been at it for days. You need some sleep."

"Another child's gone missing, John. Every lead I've gotten has been a dead end. He's playing us. I can't give him the luxury of more time on top of that." He said it as if it should make the most sense in the entire world. Sherlock would sacrifice his own well being, his own comfort, for the sake of the chase. It was devastatingly brilliant.

"You're only human-"

"No, John. _You're _only human. How can you possibly put your mediocre limits on me? Please, give me space. And for the love of the Queen _stop_ staring so much."

That was certainly enough of a reason. John huffed and marched off to his bedroom, for it was getting late anyway. The comment about him staring was unnecessary, he thought, but so obviously true. John felt himself more aware of Sherlock, particularly recently. Sherlock wasn't, well, just an ordinary man, as demonstrated from their last encounter. He was so much more in so many ways. Physically appealing, emotionally stimulating, mentally exhilarating.

And that _voice. _Often times it felt like melted butter warm, sliding down to settle his knotted stomach.

John collapsed face down onto his mattress, which had been empty most of the week. It was just another thing to check off on his list. John no longer looked forward to sleeping alone because the nightmares returned, and there was only one conclusion he could make: somehow, in some way, Sherlock stopped them. Whether it be psychological or neurological, having Sherlock in his bed entailed a good night's rest. As much as it pained, and embarrassed, him to say it, he missed having a certain brunette balled up on the other side of his mattress. He felt a sense of security having this nearly invincible, practically unearthly, being next to him while he slept. And that was torn away from him, like a child without a teddy bear.

But of course he'd never admit this to Sherlock. He spent a deployment in Afghanistan. Certainly he could handle a couple of nightmares.

* * *

Everything was heading in the wrong direction. Nightmares were one entity, but Sherlock was a whole separate plague. His work was scattered all over the house, papers, maps, and instructions pinned on every open space in the flat. Half the time the detective wasn't there, and that was the problem. Messes were never cleaned, meals were left half-finished, and violins were played at 3 AM. John just about had it with Sherlock, and his disgusting lifestyle, but he could recall the one morning that really broke the camel's back.

John shuffled downstairs, in which seemed like an unconscious trance, to find Sherlock once again missing-in-action. Without giving it much thought, he pulled his lifeless, aching body over to the bathroom to have a shower. He threw open the curtain, and was rather surprised to find a dull, silver spoon lingering near the drain of the tub. It was odd, John could only think at first as he continued to get ready for his shower. But as the steam rose, the wheels were turning. And when dripping condensation began to form on the cracked tiles of the small shower, it came to him.

The spoon was charcoal black, and Sherlock was going back to his old habits.

* * *

"John, I've just discovered something... What are you doing with that?" Sherlock stopped himself in his complete thought. It was a feat for any audience. His eyes, very curious, very aware, were plastered on the spoon intentionally set out in the middle of the coffee table. John was sipping out of a mug, looking his flatmate dead in the face without a flinch of hesitation. It was so out of character for him, it almost became off-putting.

"I should ask you the same bloody thing. But you would have guessed that, I'm sure." His tone was sharp, militaristic. It sent ripples through Sherlock's nerve-endings; or perhaps that could also be the result of coming down from his high. He felt like a child caught in the act of shoplifting bubble-gum. And, what's worse, he almost felt a little... guilty. "Is this case so important to you that you're going to kill yourself over it?! God, every day is just another reason why you should be dead, Sherlock. And I really can't-"

"I'm not an irresponsible child. Stop treating me like one. I make these decisions fully aware of my limits, you underestimate that." Calm as ever. And just as irritating as ever. But John wouldn't let Sherlock win this one. Not this time. It was too important to him.

"No, I think it's you who is underestimating. These are _drugs, _Sherlock. Drugs that-that destroy lives and have fatal consequences, and sure now it might seem like you're doing 'just enough,' but just you wait. 'Just enough' won't be enough, and you'll need more and more until-" John took in a deep breath. Visions of Harriet passed out with vomit in her hair, convulsing and reeling, flashed in his mind. His words were escaping his mouth so quickly, he hadn't enough time to process them. "I'm just looking out for you. As a flatmate. No, as a friend."

"I've already told you I don't have friends." The bitter response came and, with a fuzzy, furious mind, Sherlock went for the spoon. John swiped it up just in time, but only because the detective wasn't at his best. He felt hurt, after all they'd been through. However, he knew this wasn't the Sherlock he glorified. This wasn't _his _Sherlock. No. This was "pre-John" Sherlock that he hoped he'd never meet.

"Well, you've got just one. And I'm not letting you get anywhere near _this,_" he gestured towards the poor excuse of silverware tightly grasped in his palm, "until we at least talk this through. I can't watch you kill yourself like this, Sherlock."

Sherlock complied, but only by a centimeter. He stiffly lowered himself into the single chair, eyes still preying on the spoon. "I'm already dead, John. Cases, however, cases like these make me feel alive. The cocaine gave me that sharpness I needed to discover this new detail in the case-"

"Nope, enough about the case. Sherlock, I can take your pulse right now and prove that you're alive. So you're alive enough for me to prevent what crack will make you into again. And, also, I don't even think you need it. Using is sort of like... cheating, don't you think?"

Now this got Sherlock alive. His brain was ready to fire the witty banter at John. "Cheating? Oh, do tell."

"Well," the doctor actually felt a bit squeamish underneath Sherlock's heavy stare, "You've solved plenty of cases, hard cases at that, without drugs. Like, uhm... oh! Like the case with the cab driver. Don't tell me drugs are what got that murderer shot."

_"No, I'm what got that murderer shot."_ John felt a bit smug at the thought.

"You're correct, but this case is far more complex. You fail to understand that concept."

"And?! You're a detective, for God's sake. You solve the mysteries, so solve them yourself! Otherwise, I can't say that I find you brilliant anymore." It was such a lie, and Sherlock knew it. While John felt disappointed in Sherlock's behavior, he'd never take him for any less than astonishing.

"John, that's the dullest statement you've made all day," he began to relax and gave way to the plush chair. He sighed, then began to laugh contagiously, gut-busting snorts and chuckles. John didn't know if it was because of the drugs, or just the situational irony at present. Either way, it was as contagious as ever. Soon enough, John was joining in until they were pealing at the sides with teary eyes, endorphins running wild.

"But... in all seriousness, Sherlock," he said breathlessly, "I'm really worried about you. I don't think I could live with myself to see you get addicted again."

"I planned on quitting when I started. It was a last ditch effort, and it worked, but... I don't feel quite the same satisfaction as when I was sober." Sherlock's expression changed rather quickly. His cold, undisturbed stare transformed into somber contemplation, almost regret. John sucked in a breath, so deeply moved by the slightest shift in the detective's atmosphere. The staring again. Sherlock didn't seem to notice this time, but no doubt he would catch on.

"Erm, right, so what is it, after all? Found a dust particle belonging to another hemisphere of the globe?" John had to smirk a bit. It was the least he could do to lighten the mood, and perhaps get his mind off of _other _topics. Like the baby blue, button-down Sherlock was wearing, exposing only the slightest sliver of pale, porcelain skin he could so easily reach out and...

"You're humor reeks of mundane sarcasm," was the ever-so-necessary reply that interrupted his inappropriate thoughts.

"Oh, _on_ with it, Sherlock!"

"Our _he_ is a _she._"


	4. Midnight Snack

With the exception of cocaine floating around the house, Sherlock didn't change his compulsive habits very much at all. He was still rather wrapped up in the height of the case and, while John appreciated the detective's stash flushed down the toilet, the house was still a complete and utter mess. However, because of his discovery of the gender of the culprit, Sherlock did reward himself with some sleep. John supposed cleaning the house could be put off until tomorrow.

"Just how did you know? Wasn't this last crime scene like all the rest?"

"It was. Don't you see, John. That's the point!"

"No, sorry. Guess I don't."

"Oh, but it's so unbelievably simple," and Sherlock continued to explain something about the marking on the wall. Apparently the criminal was in a rush this time around, and the marker strokes were more feminine (whatever the bloody hell that means). John really couldn't keep up. At this point, his mind was wandering to better, or _worse_, places.

They were both lounging in John's bedroom, enjoying a_ light_ conversation about the crime scene of a mass kidnapping. The concept of normality John held now, in comparison to before he met Sherlock, appalled and astounded him. He felt comfortable, even inviting, the other man in his bed. Sherlock sleeping with him meant no nightmares. No nightmares meant a full night of sleep. And a full night of sleep made John happy.

So, with a couple of shortcuts, Sherlock made John happy.

And he did, in a couple ways. The detective gave him adventure, a sense of purpose. There had never been a dull moment as soon as he stepped into 221 B. It was exhausting; it was wonderful. It was frightening; it was bewildering.

"Any guesses as to where she's going to strike next?" John replied with a yawn, showing his _immediate_ attention to the details of the case.

"Not a guess. Never a guess. _Deduction_, John." He looked as severely serious as ever. "And yes, to answer that hideously cliche question. I've tracked down one child I'm certain she'll visit two nights from now, to throw us off."

"And lemme guess. We're going to beat her to 'em?" The doctor replied with a loud sigh, although he could already feel the excitement brewing in the pit of his stomach.

"Ugh, that word again. And, yes... in a sense." Sherlock looked a bit devious, knowing, which made John's gut clench. That look of mischief always meant he was planning. Just what was as much of a mystery as the case itself. "Well, good night." The detective then proceeded to slip himself under the comforter and curl up into a ball, per usual. It felt so mundane at this point, and John knew very well that it shouldn't

"You mean that's all the hint I get?!" John scoffed at Sherlock, still very awake and upright.

"Yes, good night John."

Typical Sherlock to leave him guessing, _deducing,_ as he put it. God, what he would give to just spend a moment in his mind, just to see what it was like. He imagine it would be like a computer, processing complicated formulas and deducing but lacking the humanity, the emotion, to comprehend social standards and boundaries. It would feel perhaps... empty. John's eyes flickered over Sherlock's sleeping form. He felt sympathetic towards the detective, unknowing when he should be all-knowing. Living without feeling, without sharing a human connection with anyone. He was a stranger to everyone.

John could merely hope he was that human connection.

* * *

John Watson embodied the very idea of strength. Mentally, physically, emotionally. He was a fighter, a life-saver. But moments in his life, he felt so incredibly insignificant, helpless. This was especially evident in his nightmares. It wasn't so much the war scenes that really shook him, but it was his own immobility inside of them which seemed to terrify him to tears.

He never remembered them, and nor did he want to; he only knew they rattled him awake, gasping and sweating, looking for some anchorage in reality.

That night was, to his disappointment, in succession to the rest.

Whatever the dream was it must have been devastating, because he was slammed into consciousness with stinging eyes and a dry mouth. John shivered, convulsing as sweat rippled down his thick skin. He clenched onto his damp pillow, attempting to gulp down tears with his sandpaper throat.

He was bleary, his mind flickering between consciousness. But he could faintly, just quite faintly, remember something cool and inviting on his skin. It was like ice; so very cold. It made him shiver with minute delight. Fingertips grazing the back of his neck, just like in his sickly imagined fantasies. He felt relaxed, and he drifted with the feeling of that cool, soft sensation against his radiating skin. Slipping into a new dream, somewhat similar to this "dream," he grinned pleasantly into his pillow.

He was still asleep. He was still dreaming. It was all just a dream.

At least, that was his explanation.

* * *

"So, what's the big idea having me hide under the bed? Isn't that a little, oh I don't know,_ cliche?_" Steam was coming out of John's nostrils as they went over the plan in the taxi. Sherlock, of course, gave him the ass-end of the deal as usual. And, also as usual, he never got quite a full explanation.

Sherlock chuckled deeply. It was all one big joke to him. "Don't you worry your pitiful little brain, John." It was late, eleven maybe twelve, when the detective decided to grab a taxi across London and, once more, forced John to pay the fare.

"You know, this whole 'John picking up the cab fare' is getting awfully-"

"Stop talking and _thinking_, for God's sake," the brunette flung his scarf over his shoulder, long legs moving even quicker. John could barely keep up. He hated it. Being confused, being thrown around place to place. It was overwhelming and, yet, he couldn't ask for anything more.

The next house, which unsurprisingly was a mansion, was told to be vacant. Something about that definite statement didn't sit right with the doctor.

"So, just where are you going to be? In the closet?" That may have been the wrong choice of words. John hadn't brought up last night because he was still unsure whether it actually happened or not. Good lord, he hoped not. His life already complicated enough with his own urges.

He needed a girlfriend. Far too long had he been shunned from a woman's touch. It would set him straight, and probably in the most literal sense possible.

"Humorous, but I've already told you I'm married to my work." He could pin point the faintest smirk on the detective's face.

"Not what I meant." John scowled, giving up entirely on Sherlock and his trickster ways. He would go with the plan because, in all honesty, there was never a reason to doubt the Sherlock Holmes.

So John entered the dark house alone, a chill running down his back at the thought a kidnapper could be visiting any moment. But, of course, this feeling was what he truly missed. The anticipation, the unknown, no, the anxiety to know. Sherlock always made him wait until the very last second, however, to explain the whole situation to him. This whole thing about having John hide under the bed could very well be completely meaningless to the entire case.

He entered the child's bedroom with his heart hammering in his throat. The criminal was female, which should have comforted the doctor, but often times that was the scarier alternative. Anyone who knew John knew he was terrified of women, especially when they were provoked. His last relationship left him with a bruised cheek and a lot of apologies to make at his current clinic. A female's revenge was something that scarred lives and ruined relationships, and cars for that matter.

Under the full-size bed he squeezed, taking every muscle just to fit in the space between the floor and the frame. It was uncomfortably tight, but not constricting. John would be fine for an hour or two, a hand-gun loaded in the pocket of his jeans, for the culprit to come climbing through the window.

He waited with the patience of a steady-handed surgeon.

And waited.

Until his patience grew thin like blood after taking aspirin.

The minutes seemed to crawl by without a clock for reference. And this plush, carpeted floor felt especially forgiving after a long day of bending and reaching while cleaning out the apartment. His eyes slowly began to close, the melatonin dribbling into his brain convincing him that he'd wake up if he heard a noise.

It made a well enough argument. He was asleep within minutes.

* * *

John awoke with sunshine, aged approximately 0500 hours, glaring in his face through the blinds of his bedroom.

If only this was his bedroom.

No, in fact this wasn't his bedroom. It was a bedroom painted bright blue with decals of soccer balls and racecars all over the walls.

It was the crime scene.

He shot up with the forgetful notion of being underneath the bed, and instantly thumped his head against the metal framing of the bed. Groaning in pain, the doctor rolled out and took his slow time getting up from the floor. He was sore, had a throbbing migraine, and finally came to realization that he fell asleep on his look-out job.

God, Sherlock was going to kill him.

With an aching back and a heavy chest, he started out of the bedroom all while rehearsing his apology in his head.

And he'd be out of the room and down the hall if it wasn't for shoe catching on something.

A full plate of chocolate-chip cookies positioned at the very foot of the door.

* * *

**Note:** Sorry for the absence, and the not-so-consistent, probably really terrible chapter! Tests, finals, and graduation have been taking up most of my time, but I'm almost out which means more time to write. Enjoy more dramatic irony (for me that is!). Haha. -dredfish


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